The Very Model of a Modern Librarian
by Oneiriad
Summary: Sparrington. Future AU. James is a librarian and Jack fails to return a book.


**The Very Model of a Modern Librarian  
**_Oneiriad_

**Disclaimer**: PotC is not mine. Does this surprise anyone?  
**Author's note**: written for order_of_chaos, who asked for "Sparrington Future!AU, in which James is a librarian, Jack fails to return a book, and the books themselves are chipped like you said they should be."

* * *

What kind of person would ever name a library ship the Dauntless? The Alexandria I could have understood, perhaps even the Dewey or the Ranganathan, but the Dauntless? It sounds like a name that by all rights should belong to the proudest ship in the fleet, not a humble provider of knowledge.

Yet the Dauntless she is and the Dauntless she will remain, no doubt, as long as the wind will fill her sails and carry us across the deep blue sea. And she is a magnificent sight, that I must admit, designed to resemble the wooden vessels that sailed among the Islands in the olden days. On a day like today, with a strong following wind and every solar cell woven into the sails glittering and gleaming, I might even call her beautiful.

As the traditional shout of "land ho" sounds from the lookout, I walk down to where the other librarian onboard, Andrea Gillette, is busily preparing the cart she'll soon be dragging ashore, heavily loaded with boxes for those who can't get down to the ship themselves. Boxes full of chips and sticks and tapes, DVDs and CDs and books.

Yes, I said books.

I know that my old colleagues back in London would scoff at the very thought. Why transport all those blocks of dead wood around, when all you need is an uplink and everything is at your fingertips, ready to download? But this is the Islands, where not every man, woman and child carry a handy in their bag as par for the course, and besides, the database licenses are prohibitively expensive. So, books – even if around here that also means a never ending war on mould.

I help Gillette lift the heaviest box – the one intended for the school – then leave her to her work and walk up to the helm, where I'll have a decent view of our docking. Ropes are thrown to men waiting on the rickety old wooden quay and the gangplank lowered, while above us the huge neon sign blinks its usual message: Welcome to Tortuga.

It's funny about Tortuga. It used to be this tiny, insignificant island, barely supporting a few fishermen. Legendary home of the buccaneers, though, and after the Rising they returned to the Islands – and to Tortuga. These days there is a very real pirate problem among the Islands – even the Dauntless with her peaceful mission comes equipped with electrical anti-boarding nets and water-cannons, although in my three years down here we have fortunately never had cause to use them.

Anyway, I was talking about Tortuga. So, the pirates moved back in, followed by an assortment of people trying to earn a living off of them – prostitutes, fences, pushers, arms dealers. Soon, other undesirables followed – outlaws from far and wide, mercenaries, hackers, the infected and, of course, the poor. At some unspecified point of time Tortuga went from being a place to avoid to being the latest fashion for those of a bohemian inclination and starving young artists came flooding in. Exactly at what point the island became the densest population centre in the Islands I don't think anybody knows, though since the other islands chose to focus on sugar cane and luxury hotels for the shrinking number of tourists, I suppose it's hardly surprising.

Whatever the cause, though, there is little doubt that Tortuga is the most colourful stop on our route.

I sit at my desk down in the actual library which has clearly been designed by someone overdosing on Foucault, which means I can see every corner of my domain. I can see the young man and woman, dressed only in kilts and flip-flops, leafing through a fencing magazine. Small kids have predictably converged on the baskets with relatively recent Playstation 13 and Woop games, while slightly older girls chew bubblegum and argue furiously about whether "Tjikker Likker Tjikker Likker Tjau Tjau Tjau" or "Mushi-Mushi" are the all-time greatest rutsch-band. A cyberfreak is impatiently tapping a stainless steel claw against the nearest surface, while I tell the woman who looks like an escapee from some voodoo B-flick that regretfully, we don't have "The Odyssey" available onboard, but I'll be happy to pick up a copy just for her at our next supply stop at our main branch on Jamaica. Over her shoulder I am keeping an eye on the furry in a blue monkey suit who seems to be having an argument with the bearded man who just walked out with "The Complete Works of Marquis de Sade" under his arm.

In other words, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary for a stop in Tortuga.

And then a tottering mountain of books stops in front of me to reveal Jack, grinning at me as always.

I remember the first time I saw him, three years ago. I was still reeling from my first glimpse of Tortuga when he walked in, a revelation in skin tight jeans and a loose vest that left no part of his tanned and tattooed torso up to the imagination. It was only after he had swaggered back down the gangplank with a couple of old Disney flicks in his hand, leaving me bemused and with a feeling of something not exactly déjà vu, that one of the common sailors bothered to inform me that he was none other than _the_ Captain Jack Sparrow, the undisputed, albeit unofficial pirate lord of Tortuga.

Not that he seems like a fearsome pirate lord just now, as I tell him that unfortunately he cannot loan anything today. Actually, he most of all reminds me of a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar – and like said boy he tries to talk his way out of it.

"Mr. Sparrow, the book in question is three months overdue. Now, if you like it so much, you are more than welcome to keep it, as long as you pay the fine. Otherwise, you will have to return it before I can allow you to ..."

"Ah, but you see, mate, I seem to have mislaid it. Temporarily, savvy?"

"Mislaid it?"

"Aye, mislaid."

"Most people would call that lost."

"Not lost. See, I know it's still aboard me Pearl, I just can seem to..." and I already know how this conversation is going to end.

Which is probably why all I feel is resignation as I follow Jack through the bustling Tortuga streets, dodging pickpockets and ignoring both fruit sellers and gentlemen of negotiable affection hawking their wares. I sidestep rolling barrels and a horde of small children with outstretched hands, until one step abruptly takes me out of the crowd and onto the great stone pier, looking up at the Black Pearl.

Nobody can ever seem to agree on how Jack has managed to get his hand on the Black Pearl. Some think he personally spent a fortune raising and restoring her, others are convinced he stole her from some museum or found her sealed in some secret treasure cave. More romantically inclined souls maintain that Jack once secretly married a mermaid and the ship was her dowry. But the most popular yarn – and the most blatantly ridiculous – claims that she has always been Jack's and that he himself is actually centuries old, although whether he is supposed to be a vampire, a fairy, an alien or a loa the story-tellers never do seem to agree on.

One thing everybody does agree on, though, is that the Black Pearl is old, supposedly dating from the so-called Golden Age of Piracy, and that I do believe. Every time I see her, I marvel at the ship – not for her engine and screw, not for her sails of solar-cell-weave or a GPS 5.0 to guide her. The only concession made to the passing centuries appears to be the lightning rods

As I come aboard, I am surrounded by the smell of tar and the ominous sound of creaking wood – and I wonder how the scientist who once roused Jack's anger by stealing a piece for carbon-dating could ever have doubted the Pearl's age. He was lucky to get away after just one keel-hauling.

Jack turns around and lounges casually against a mast, grinning like an imp at me. It's hard sometimes, to remember how dangerous this man can be.

"Well, Jamie, time to do your magic."

I snort, but nevertheless open my bag and dig out the small receiver, feeling vaguely guilty. It's expensive equipment and not really supposed to leave the Dauntless, but – well, when Jack wants something, he can be most persuasive, as I learned three years ago. I turn it on and type in the proper ID number. A single forlorn beep confirms that the missing book is indeed close by.

This time Jack is the one trailing behind me as I cross the deck – giving a wide berth to Anamaria the ship's cat – Jack might be perfectly comfortable using a full-grown panther as a head-rest while he naps, but I am not getting anywhere near that blood red mouth and those teeth – following the increasing number of beeps through the doors and into the captain's cabin, then through the second pair of doors into his bedroom.

I stop right inside the doors, sigh and turn to glare at Jack. He smiles, looking for all the world as if he hadn't known perfectly well all along that "The Gay Kama Sutra" was lying right there on his nightstand.

"Jack, no," but he ignores my words in favour of rubbing himself against me from behind.

"All work and no play makes Jamie a dull boy," he purrs, leaning forward to trace the edge of my ear with the tip of his tongue. We might as well already be naked, for all the difference it would make to the feeling of his hard cock rubbing against my arse through thin layers of fabric.

"Jack, we're scheduled to leave on the evening tide. I don't have time for this." Not that my token protests seem to register with the nimble fingers already busily undoing my belt. After all, what Jack wants, Jack always gets – and I wonder if it will ever cease to amaze me that what Jack wants is apparently a somewhat dull librarian who has never been able to adequately explain to his parents why he would leave the comfortable Eunion in favour of a poorly paid job among a bunch of half-drowned, storm-wrecked islands.

"Ah, but Jamie, don't you want to see how much I've learned from reading that book?" and his fingers find their prize, wrapping around me and making me forget exactly why I was objecting to this. At least I don't drop the receiver this time unlike the first time he used this particular trick – explaining to old head librarian Swann why I was forced to requisition a new one had been – embarrassing.

"Besides, old Tower-Tobias has been babbling about storms all day – you're not going anywhere tonight," and he pushes me down on the luxurious bed and proceeds to have his wicked way with me. Thoroughly and repeatedly – and I am quite willing to believe that Jack has indeed been a most diligent reader.

Sometime later I find myself lying naked in the dark bedroom, still stupid in the post-sex-haze. Outside the wind is howling and crashing against the ship's sides, causing the cabin to sway ever so gently. Jack is slowly working his way up my back, little cat-licks tracing the length of my spine and a faint tickling from his dreadlocks as they trail along my sides.

"Jamie, my beautiful Jamie," he mumbles against my sweat-slick skin. " You always come back to me. Promise you'll always come back to me."

I reach out and twine our fingers together, bringing them up to my mouth so I can kiss each knuckle, my tongue flicking out to wrap around them one by one. I suck one into my mouth. Behind me, Jack groans, and as I feel his cock harden once more I think I might have been a tad premature in thinking about post-sex-anything.

"I promise."


End file.
